


Thus far the miles are measured

by malfaisant



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of 1784, Lord Allendale received a George McClellan of Dalmeny House and his son as his extended guests at Wollaton Hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thus far the miles are measured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vespasiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vespasiana/gifts).



> for Rian!!

“I am begging you, Mr Tharkay. You cannot simply barge in on them in the middle of their dinner—”

The eagle replied with a piercing shriek; Samir puffed up his feathers and fixed his sharp, beady-eyed stare on poor Wei, who shrank back. Tharkay took the opportunity to gently but firmly push Staunton’s servant aside. His boot-heels echoed loudly as he continued down the entrance hall’s marble floor.

Wei persisted in attempting to bar his entrance, which would have been slightly more effective if he were also not leaning back as far as was physically possible from the ill-tempered bird on Tharkay’s arm. Tharkay almost felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to even slow his step one whit.

“I apologise, but I have an urgent message to deliver. Staunton will understand,” said Tharkay. The letter in its oilskin pouch felt oddly heavy in his left breast pocket; he put his free hand over the front of his padded jacket, the crinkling noise of the parchment confirming that it was still there. He had undertaken the journey from Istanbul to Macao in a blazing rush, setting off the moment he received the missive from Avraam Maden. If blizzards and sandstorms could not stop him from his objective, then there was hardly a chance a mild-mannered house servant would succeed in its place.

If he scandalised the company in the process, he could only consider that as a point in favour of his current course of action. In this he was not disappointed: against Wei’s voluble protestations, Tharkay flung open the doors to the dining room, and was met with an audience of astonished Englishmen.

In any other instance, he would have taken great pleasure in his odd reception, the mingled looks of offense and confusion on these venerable gentlemen. But for the moment, Tharkay’s attention was entirely focused elsewhere.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for interrupting your dinner,” Tharkay said, keeping his voice as level as he could manage it. “My errand cannot wait. Is Captain William Laurence here?”

Tharkay’s eyes scanned the room, quickly settling on the man he was sent to find. He was sitting at the farthest end of the table, his tanned, weathered face and broad-shouldered build setting him apart from the rest of the company, which was a group mostly comprised of merchants and tradesmen on the other side of fifty. His blond hair and fair skin furthermore were conspicuous against the Chinese-style military tunic he wore, although its deep emerald colour brought out the blue of his eyes quite admirably.

Laurence rose in his chair, his eyes wide, and the weight of his gaze makes something thud uncomfortably in his chest. Tharkay schooled his expression to his blankest, most impassive mask, and forced himself to stay still, even as the impulse to turn away and run nearly overcame his senses. He forced himself to stay still even as Laurence had walked around the table to approach him, still with that same look of disbelief, as if he could not comprehend the sight before him.

It was much, _much_ worse than even what Tharkay had braced himself for.

“Tenzing?”

*

In the summer of 1784, Lord Allendale received George McClellan of Dalmeny House and his son as his extended guests at Wollaton Hall. A senior officer who had been serving in Maratha before becoming a diplomat, McClellan was one of a very select number of people who looked completely at ease in His Lordship’s presence, which in itself was enough to arouse intrigue about the man. He did not look much like the usual type who regularly attended upon Wollaton Hall either: his skin was brown from the sun and there was a vitality upon his features that gave him a perpetually curious expression. Laurence only understood small portions of their conversation—try as his tutors might he knew he would never have a good head for for politics...though of course he was not so undisciplined as to be eavesdropping. But Lord Allendale had made only the most cursory of introductions between them before he’d taken McClellan away and into the drawing room.

Laurence gave a sigh, and his mother, who had been standing at his shoulder as the introductions were made, softly patted his hair and smiled kindly at him.

“Will, why won’t you be a dear and shew around Mr McClellan’s son? Your father will monopolise his father’s attentions for quite some time, and you can make a friend of him. I daresay the poor boy looks as though he could certainly appreciate one,” said Lady Allendale, and what his mother might’ve meant by that was lost upon Laurence. He nodded anyway, figuring that his mother always gave good advice.

The boy in question had been standing down the hall a little ways from them, in front of the open double doors of the second-level balcony. He looked about the same age as Laurence—who was nearly only a month away from ten years, come July—but in appearances the boy did not take after his father. He had deep brown skin and hair as black as a raven’s feathers; his large, dark eyes were faintly slanted and severe enough to make Laurence consider that he should be some young Oriental princeling rather than the son of an English ambassador.

At the same time, however, Laurence thought he now knew what his mother meant, that the other boy _did_ look somewhat lonely.

However, as Laurence neared and made clear his intention to approach him, the boy shot him a baleful glance and walked out to the terrace. Taken aback by this blatant display of rudeness, Laurence had rather forgotten to be offended and jogged on after him.

“Excuse me!”

The other boy came to an abrupt halt and turned around to look at Laurence, his expression cold and unreadable. He was at the top of the marble stairs, the ones that led down to the grounds and gardens.

“What do you want?”

Laurence stopped in his tracks, frowning a bit—this was the first he had ever been spoken to in such a manner and he was unsure how he should react. His mother had always told him to be gracious, but what was he to do when the other party was not?

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence said, determined to be civil. “I only wished to make your acquaintance, and mother has asked me that I should show you around.”

“You are Lord Allendale’s second son,” said the dark-haired boy, in a tone of voice that was not exactly a question.

Laurence nodded. “And you are Mr McClellan’s son. George, was it?”

There was a pause. Then he replied, simply, “No,” and walked down the steps, obliging Laurence to have to half-run after him again. He was not prepared for a diplomat’s son to be so disobliging!

“I say, it is quite rude of you to walk away when you are in the middle of conversation!” said Lord Allendale’s son indignantly as he followed in his steps.

“I answered your question,” Tharkay replied as he continued down the staircase, not troubling to look up as he addressed Laurence, or even slowing his steps. He did not much care for the company of a spoiled English brat and had resolved to hide in the gardens somehow, but the fair-haired boy was proving incredibly impervious to the blunt, seemingly oblivious rudeness that had so effectively driven away Tharkay’s concerned house servants, relatives, and miscellaneous others back in Edinburgh.

“But do you mean to say you are not George McClellan’ son, or that you are not George?” asked Laurence as he caught up next to him and matched his stride.

Instead of answering immediately, Tharkay abruptly stopped in his tracks so that Laurence overshot him by several steps, and tried to looked preoccupied with observing a lovely rosebush.

“Neither,” he finally answered.

Laurence scoffed, with all the dignified indignation of a boy of nearly ten. “You are being difficult on purpose.”

“I do not answer to George because it is not my name,” Tharkay replied with exasperated defiance. “It is only the name my father insists I use, but not the name I was given at birth. He may call me by it as often as he likes, but I’m sure I can be as stubborn as he.”

To Tharkay’s surprise, far from challenging this rebellious disposition, Laurence only frowned, his mouth setting itself into a grim line that looked comical on his too-young face. It was a grimace of understanding, as if to say wordlessly that he too knew a thing or two about the recalcitrance of stubborn fathers.

“Well, if George is not your name, may I ask what name I should call you by?” asked Laurence after a moment. He tilted his head, looking more puzzled rather than annoyed in the face of Tharkay’s determinedly sullen expression, that Tharkay could not help but feel a bit of a heel. It was not the other boy’s fault that he did not know, and the antagonism Tharkay indulged in like a porcupine  was unwarranted. He turned away and mumbled an answer.

“My mother,” he replied in a quiet voice, “named me Tenzing."  


Laurence blinked, and then, to Tharkay’s further surprise, he smiled, as though Tharkay had not just spent the past few minutes trying to outrage him into leaving him alone.

“Then I am happy to meet you, Tenzing,” he said, offering out his hand, “I am Will.”


End file.
